


All the Ways I Know You

by Actual_Writing_Trashcan



Series: Colossus Hyperfixation Collection [25]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gentle Sex, Illness, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, You're Welcome, abuse mention, also, also wade is mentioned once but that's it, because i can't write anything else, for y'all, gratuitous fluff, i just made myself laugh, i wrote sex, it's really just the two of you, mentions and depictions of injuries, piotr gets sick and you take care of him, this is my first time writing smut so please be gentle, this is really just a fluff fest though, wait there's no such thing, yes that's right - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 04:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16654627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actual_Writing_Trashcan/pseuds/Actual_Writing_Trashcan
Summary: A series of snapshots from yours and Piotr's relationship.(Ties in with "Wade. No. Stop." and "The Road is Long and Fraught With Pain.")(All warnings in the tags.)





	All the Ways I Know You

When you’d been growing up in Bumfuck Nowhere, with nothing but the walls of your room to keep your company most days, you hadn’t envisioned or anticipated ever having a boyfriend, let alone a long term relationship.

It just didn’t seem like a possibility. You’d figured that you’d be stuck in your parent’s house forever, and they’d made it abundantly clear that no one would ever want a ‘perversion of God’s creation’ like you for a wife.

So, early on, you’d set aside any notions of anyone ever loving you romantically. Better to let yourself down early than get up hope and be devastated later.

And then Piotr happens. And he’s wonderful. And he loves  _you_.

And you have  _no idea_ what to do with that most days.

 

* * *

 

“Trust is earned when actions meet words.” --Chris Butler.

 

* * *

 

You learn fairly early on that trust is a  _big_  deal to Piotr. 

He practically falls apart when his trust is broken or betrayed --well, as much as Piotr falls apart. He keeps going --he’s got the whole ‘being a functioning adult’ schtick down pat--but the air of melancholy around him when someone betrays his trust --usually Wade--is undeniable. He operates in such a state of innate goodness that he often assumes that other people did as well, thus bestowing upon them the same esteem he holds himself in.

A recipe for disaster, if anyone’s asking you, because very few people are as genuinely, whole-heartedly good as Piotr is.

And, to top it all off, he always finds a way to beat up on himself when he's betrayed.

It only takes one time of watching him blame himself for Wade’s latest round of killings for you to decide that, so help you, you’ll  _never_  be the cause of that kind of self-abasement in your wonderful boyfriend. You’ll never be the one to betray his trust or let him down.

Easier said than done.

***

You really should’ve seen his blow up over the journalling coming. It's a natural Piotr reaction.

He needs trust. Honesty. He needs to make sure that you're doing okay, especially after the repression serum incidents.

And you need... space.

You can’t look yourself in the eye when you stand in front of the mirror in the morning. You’re still too raw, too broken and ugly from everything to see your own face and not hurt inside.

You’re a murderer. An abomination. A stain on the Earth that ought to be removed.

And Piotr, wonderful as he is, can’t not be a hover-copter when he’s worried about someone --least of all you.

***

He tries to help you set reminders to do your journalling and therapy homework, tries to talk to you about whatever thoughts Alyssa was having you focus on for a given week, tries to sit down with you when you meditate--

You love him, but you can’t take it. You might not question why the universe decided to set up a literal angel like him with a fuck up like you, but you definitely don’t want him questioning it either. You don’t want him to ge too close and realize just how fucked up you really are.

So, you tuck all your stuff for journalling and homework in a bag. Slink off to one of the empty classrooms each night so he can’t find you. Stay there until you’re done with everything, then walk back to the room you share with your boyfriend and settle down for the night. 

And, for a while, you can tell Piotr’s confused. And hurt. But he takes it all in patient silence and doesn’t ask you why you sneak out each night to do your self care.

Again. You don’t understand what you did to deserve him.

***

Eventually, though, you start healing enough that you can bear to be around Piotr while you do your self care. You start trusting that he’ll stick by you, even if he catches glimpses of the abomination you believe yourself to be.

And Piotr, for his part, doesn’t push in on your self care. He simply goes about his night routine, giving you a considerate berth and only interrupting to kiss the top of your head and your temple.

You can still see the worry in his eyes, though. The unspoken need to check in on you, to be reassured that you’re alright.

It kills you to see the self-imposed pain in his beautiful baby-blues.

***

One night, though, it occurs to you that there’s something you can do to help reassure him. Something that’ll let him check in on your self care routine without being too close for your comfort.

You get on your phone and tap through your meditation app. You know Piotr uses the same one as you --he was the one that introduced it to you--and it takes literally no time whatsoever to find his account --there aren’t that many “Piotr Rasputin”s in the world, let alone upstate New York, after all.

You send him an invite to be your meditation buddy, then do your meditation for the night.

By the time he finishes his shower, you’re already in bed for the night. You make grabby hands at him as he tosses his clothes in the hamper. “Snuggle time. Come on.”

He chuckles as he finishes drying off his hair. “Patience,  _moya lyubov’_.”

“You do know who you’re talking to, right?”

He opens his mouth to retort, but stops when he sees the notification on his phone screen. He stares at it, frowning in confusion, and asks “ _Myshka_ , did you ask me to be meditation buddy?”

“Yupp.”

He sits down on the bed next to you, tapping at the screen as he accepts the request. His brow’s still furrowed, and he’s quiet for a long moment before asking “Why?” in a quiet voice.

You reach out and put your hand on his. “I know you worry about me. About how I’m doing with my self care. And I really appreciate the space you’ve given me to just let me do things my way. I thought that making you my buddy --which lets you see how often I’m meditating--would help you feel more... reassured.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Love isn’t about what we do and don’t have to do. I did it because I wanted to, and because I wanted you to feel loved and trusted.”

He softens at that and leans down to kiss you sweetly --reverently--on the lips. “Thank you. You have no idea how much it means to me.”

You smile back up at him, gazing into his gorgeous blue eyes. “And you have no idea how much you mean to me.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m not faking being sick. I’m faking being well.” --Anonymous.

 

* * *

 

You never thought you’d find an area of life where Piotr would be more difficult than you. He’s a beacon of adult responsibility and maturity. A metal titan of good decision making skills and self control.

But, lo and behold, there is an area where Piotr is more stubborn and less mature than you are.

***

You come home from a week long mission in the middle of winter, excited to see your wonderful boyfriend --who, understandably, had stayed behind to teach. You head to his classroom, delighted that you’ve managed to catch him at the end of his day. You poke your head into the room, big smile on your face--

Piotr’s bracing himself against his desk with one hand while he rubs at his sinuses with the other. His nose is redder than usual and almost looks... swollen? There are dark bags under his eyes as well, and he just generally looks... awful.

Your smiles snaps into a frown. “Are you alright?”

He looks up and smiles wearily when he sees you. “ _Privet, myshka_.”

Your eyes widen with alarm. “Are you sick?”

“ _Nyet_ ,” he says in a raspy voice that’s too deep, even for him. “Just tired. Long day of lecturing.”

You narrow your eyes at him, then smirk when you put together the perfect way to smoke him out. “Okay.” You walk towards him and grab the material of his button up shirt. “Give me a kiss, honey. Your  _myshka_  needs a little lovin’.” When he hesitates --and physically pulls away from you--you let out a triumphant cry and jab an accusing finger against his chest. “Ha! I knew it! You  _are_  sick!”

He relents with a sigh. “I am bit under weather. Nothing serious.”

“You look like death warmed over.”

“Dramatic as ever, I see.”

You frown when he’s hit by a wave of body-wracking coughing. “Yeah, yeah. I’m dramatic, and so is that coughing.” You tug on his arm. “Come on. You’re going to bed. To  _rest_. Because you’re  _sick_.”

“I have grading I need to finish first.”

You put your hands on your hips. “Piotr--”

“I will be fine,  _lyublyu_.” He manages a convincing smile. “Colds do not affect me that much. I am sure I will be fine in morning.”

There’s not much you can do to make him do --he’s almost as impossible as you once he sets his mind to something, and you don’t have the muscle to literally force him to bed. You eye him suspiciously and cross your arms over your chest. “If you’re wrong--”

“I won’t be.”

“I. Wasn’t. Done. If you’re wrong, I’m confining you to bed rest until you’re better. Capiche?”

“If you insist,  _myshka_.”

“Oh, I do. I really fucking do.”

***

You’re woken up in the morning by the lovely sound of your boyfriend coughing up a storm. You sit bolt upright in bed and see that he’s already half dressed and bracing himself against a wall as he doubles over. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?” you hiss as you fly out of bed and help him steady himself.

“Sorry,  _myshka_. I did not mean to wake you.”

You glare at him. “You were trying to sneak out!”

“I am only Russian teacher--”

“Well they’ll have to make do without you! You’re staying in bed!”

“Y/N--”

“Piotr Nikolaiveitch Rasputin, so help me if you argue right now I will let  _Wade_  be your nurse. Sexy costume and all!”

He grimaces, then relents with a sigh. “Very well. I suppose a day of rest would benefit me.”

“Yeah, you’re damn right it would. You get back in your pjs and go back to bed. I’m going to get some shit pulled together.” You press the back of your hand against his forehead and wince. “And grab a thermometer. Fuckin’ tits, you’re burning up, hon.”

He gives you a weary look. “Language,  _dorogaya moya_. Please.”

“Fine.” You kiss his forehead, which burns against your lips. “But only because you’re sick.”

He smiles gratefully and starts changing back into his pajamas. “Thank you,  _myshka_.”

You pat his shoulder, then give him a gentle shove back towards bed. “Rest. I’ll be back up in a few minutes.”

***

You learn quickly that Piotr will still try to work, even when you’ve confined him to bed rest. You end up having to hide his phone, his grading folder, and his laptop to keep him from reading over papers, working on lesson plans, or reviewing students’ online submissions.

“He’s a workaholic!” you lament to Wade after checking to make sure Piotr’s actually napping and not just pretending to rest while writing lectures in a notebook or something similarly productive. “I’ve already caught him  _five times_  trying to work while he should be resting!  _Five_!”

“You could always try duct taping his hands together. That’s what I’d do.”

Normally, you’d just roll your eyes, but the idea sounds seriously tempting at the moment. “I just don’t get it. He’s always so... on it about health and taking care of oneself. Why can’t he just let himself rest?”

Wade shoves a fistful of Goldfish crackers in his mouth and shrugs. “I don’t know. Absentee father? Subconsciously tries to emulate what he never had so he can prove he’s more of a man than his dad?”

“No, that’s your tragic backstory. Piotr talks to his parents at least once every couple weeks.”

“Ew. That sounds so... healthy and well adjusted.”

“I know, right?” You’re perched on his bed, bag of Cheetos between your legs while you powwow with your brother to try and figure out how to best take care of your sick boyfriend. Your brow furrows as you pop another Cheeto into your mouth. “Fuck, I don’t even know what kind of sick foods he likes or what to do to help him feel better. How the fuck am I gonna handle this?”

“Mild bullshitting and maximum effort.”

“I mean,  _aside_  from that.”

Wade shrugs. “You could call his mom. Aren’t moms supposed to know what helps their kids feel better?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t grow up in a well-adjusted enough household for that.” But it’s not a bad idea. You’ve met his family over Skype, you have his mom’s phone number, and you know she speaks English --she works as a translator for curriculum writing agencies. It’d be weird if she didn’t speak English.

Wade frowns when you pull out your phone. “What are you doing?”

“Calling his mom.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. I have her number.” You hit dial and lift your phone to your ear. “And don’t take this as some golden opportunity to be a jackass. She knows about you and what you’re like.”

The call picks up after the third ring. “ _Ya sluchu vas_.”

Your teeth dig into the inside of your lower lip.  _Shit, I hope she recognizes that it’s me. I don’t know enough Russian to limp things through if she doesn’t_. “Mrs. Rasputin? It’s Y/N, Piotr’s girlfriend. You met me on a Skype call a month or so ago?”

Fortunately, she does recognize you. “Ah, Y/N!  _Privet_!” Her voice is warm and happy. “How nice to hear from you. I was not expecting call.”

“I wasn’t expecting to make one, unfortunately. Piotr’s sick--”

She says something in Russian, then switches back to English. “Is it serious?”

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s just a cold. The only serious thing about it is that it’s seriously hard to get him to  _rest_.”

She chuckles, a sound that’s fond and exasperated in a way that only a mother can be. “All Rasputin men like this. Is probably genetic.”

You laugh with her. “Stuff like this usually is. Anyway, I was wondering if there were things he liked to eat, or things that might help him relax a little.”

“You are very sweet,” she coos. “Piotr is lucky to have partner like you.”

“I think I’m the lucky one in this set up.”

“No selling self short. Not everyone risks language barrier for sick partner. Unfortunately, I think most foods would be hard for you to get or make. But there are few things that help  _medvezhonok_  relax.”

***

Once you’re done with the phone call --and promise that you’ll hop in on Piotr’s next call back home--you head back to the room you share with your boyfriend, armed with Alexandra Rasputin’s innate motherly knowledge and a sense of what you’re doing for once.

Piotr’s sitting up in bed, sketching in one of his many drawing pads. “I am not working,” he says as soon as you walk in. “This is relaxation.”

“I’m glad you’re relaxing, but you should ideally be  _sleeping_.”

He actually pouts, which is comically adorable considering his size. “Sleeping all day is not healthy.”

“It is when you’re  _sick_. Which, in case you missed the memo, you  _are_.” You kiss his forehead --he’s still feverish to the touch--and nudge at his shoulders. “Lay down. I’m gonna help you relax, okay?”

He sighs --which makes him cough--and sets his drawing stuff on the nightstand before settling under the covers.

You sit next to his shoulder, kiss his forehead again, then start running your fingers through his hair and massaging his scalp.

Piotr’s eyes basically roll into the back of his head and he lets out a quiet, contented groan. “That feels  _wonderful_ ,  _myshka_.”

“Good.” You kiss his temple. “That’s the point. I want you to feel  _good_.”

“I always feel good when I am with you.”

You smile as you watch some of the tension drain out of his face and shoulders and mentally thank Alexandra again.  _That’s my goal, baby. I always want you to feel good when you’re around me_.

 

* * *

 

“It’s a lot easier to be angry at someone than it is to tell them you’re hurt.” -Tom Gates.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t hard to find Piotr after he storms out of the clinic room Wade's healing in. Aside from the fact that he’s nearly eight feet tall in defense mode, there’s only a handful of places he ventures to when he’s angry.

The sounds of someone obliterating a punching bag makes it all the easier to figure out where he’s retreated to this time.

He’s in the gym, still in defense mode as he whales on a specially reinforced punching bag. His jaw is taut with tension, and each precisely placed punch pierces the air with a harsh  _smack_.

You stop to watch him for a moment --and if the circumstances were better, you might ogle at the way his biceps ripple with each strike or stare at his ass for an inappropriate amount of time.

But the circumstances aren’t better, and all you can feel is sadness as you watch your gentle giant work the worst of his frustrations out on a punching bag.

You know he cares about Wade. You know he believes in Wade. And watching him eat every positive word he’s said to the other X-Men about Wade improving tears at your heart like nothing else.

You walk towards him slowly, making sure that you’re well in his line of sight as you approach. Once you’re certain that he knows you’re there, you slip behind him and wrap your arms around his waist.

He sighs like a man twice his size and stops assaulting the punching bag to place one of his steel hands over yours with a delicacy that utterly contradicts the display of sheer force he’d been making not ten seconds early. “ _Privet, msyhka_.”

“Hi.” You kiss his back. “Are you okay?” 

He inhales and exhales with calculated slowness and pats your hands with the utmost of gentleness. “I will be.”

“Do you want me to steady the bag for you?”

_That_  finagles a hint of a laugh out of him. “ _Nyet_. You would get hurt.” He turns around carefully, neither stepping on your feet or bumping into you, and cups your head with his massive hands. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I’m not the one that was beating the punching bag like it stole my lunch money.” Your eyes close as his lips press a delicate kiss against the top of your head. “Seriously, babe, are you alright? You were kinda storm-clouding when you walked out of Wade’s room.”

He sighs again and steps away from you to start pacing back and forth. “When will he learn? When will he see his actions are wrong?”

You walk over to where he’s paced and take his hands in yours. “Babe, I’m gonna be super honest with you right now. He’s not going to because he thinks he’s right, and that’s probably not going to change.”

Piotr grits his teeth together as he grimaces. “How can he think killing people is right? It is depraved, senseless--”

“Do you actually think that the world would’ve been better off if he’d let a few child traffickers live?”

His face contorts with frustration as he tries to find words to describe what he’s feeling. “That is... that is not point of rule. We cannot arbitrarily decide who ought to live and who ought to die. We do not get to be judge, jury, and executioners.”

“And what happens when the judge, jury, and executioners let the wrong people off the hook? What are we supposed to do then?”

He purses his lips together and sits on one of the workout benches. “In Russia, much is controlled by mafia. Even in Siberia, I watched people I know disappear because they crossed wrong person at wrong time. When people decide they make standards for who deserves to live and who does not, innocent people get hurt. Always.”

“Wade doesn’t kill innocent people. We both know that.”

“ _Da_ , but what about Vanessa?” He looks up at you, face solemn. “She was innocent, and she died because Wade crossed wrong person at wrong time. I will not argue that Wade is not good at what he does. He is very good, and he takes down people that hurt others. I can respect that. What I cannot respect is that he puts people he cares about --people  _I_  care about--at risk because he thinks he has right to kill. Every time he decides to take down another criminal organization, he puts bigger target on backs of people like you. People who care about Wade and who Wade cares about. And, for as much as Wade may be right about quality of people he kills, he has  _no_  right to put others in danger because of their proximity to him.”

“You should tell him that,” you say once you’re sure he’s at a stopping point. “Tell him that instead of the rules thing. You and I both know that Wade’s never going to agree with the rules. Wade cares about people. Use that to help him see a different point of view.”

He shakes his head. “ _Nyet_. To bring up Vanessa like that would be... unkind. Unwarranted. It was not Wade’s fault that she died --not directly, at least.”

“Yeah, but he should at least be shown that the consequences extend past just him getting hurt. We both know that he gets caught up in the moment. I think you could really help him see the forest instead of the trees.”

He stares down at his hands, expression pinched. “Maybe. I still think it would be unkind.”

You step in between his knees and loop your arms around his neck. “Perhaps, but I know that if you ever do talk to him about it that you’ll have found a way to make it kind.”

He lets out a warm chuckle that’s more of a breathy huff and lets his head rest against your shoulders. “My  _myshka_. What have I done to deserve your faith in me?”

“Your actions match your words. That’s more than enough.” You kiss his temple, then cup his face with your hands and tilt his head back so you can look him in the eye. “And here’s the other thing you need to remember. Wade is doing better. Maybe not in the ways that everyone thinks --hopes--he should, but he is  _better_. He’s less suicidal. Less depressed. And that’s only because he’s had a lot of positive influences to be around, and you’re definitely one of those influences.”

He actually smiles at that and lifts your hands away from his face to kiss your fingertips. “ _Moye serdtse._  I would be lost without you.”

You smile back and lean in to kiss him. “And I, you.”

 

* * *

 

“It’s just a flesh wound.” -Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, you’re entirely sure that having an armor-based mutation is a  _really bad idea_.

Namely in the sense that it dulls the natural human instinct to avoid generally dangerous things and-slash-or situations.

Like, you know, standing in too close proximity to a bomb that’s about to go off because there’s a computer with information that the X-Force needs to track down yet another group of mutant traffickers --these guys are like roaches, you find one and then there’s millions of them  _everywhere_ \--because you have steel armor that leaves you invulnerable to nearly anything.

Keyword:  _nearly_.

Which is how you find yourself in one of the clinic rooms, glaring down at your battered and bruised boyfriend after such an incident.

Who clearly must be concussed, given that the first thing he utters when he sees you is “Did we get the information?”

Inability to notice your girlfriend’s very evident rage by way of not picking up on basic social cues is a side effect of concussions, right?

“Yeah. We did. Because  _someone_  thought it was a good idea to stand next to a  _bomb that was about to go off_  to retrieve a fucking laptop. Gee. I wonder who that idiot could be.”

“ _Dorogoy_ \--”

“Nuh uh. I nearly had a heart attack when I found out that you’d nearly killed yourself for a glorified electronic notebook. You can take the next five minutes of passive aggression. I’ve earned a good rant.”

He sits back in his bed, folds his arms over his stomach, and gives you a patient --and properly sheepish--smile. “ _Khorosho_.”

“Thank you. First of all, I don’t care if you’re the only other guy in the group. That does not give you automatic permission to go and make legitimately stupid like that! Ever! Just because Wade and Nathan do it doesn’t mean that you get to be a  _fucking idiot_  too! You nearly died!”

He doesn’t say anything when you pause; he just sits there and takes your fury like the saint he is.

“Okay, I was legitimately expecting more arguing,” you mutter, deflating faster than a balloon that’d been shot by a Glock. “Stuff about you being mostly invulnerable and shit.”

“I can tell I scared you,” he says softly. “And that hurts me more than my injuries. As much as I think I made best possible choice, I can never justify scaring you so badly.”

“Yeah. You did scare me.” Your throat tightens and you pick up his chart to try and distract yourself from the tears welling up in your eyes. “Three cracked ribs, one broken collarbone, several... contusions?”

“Bruises,” he supplies helpfully.

“Yeah, no shit. You look like Violet Beauregarde post gum chewing incident.” You set the clipboard down on the nearest table with a smack. “You’re lucky you didn’t rupture any internal organs. You’re lucky you’re  _alive._  If you’d been any closer --or if your armor had failed--you  _would’ve fucking died_! Did you even think about that? Did you even think about what that would do to  _me_?”

He frowns, blue eyes radiating sadness, and holds out one of his hands to you.

You take it, sobbing as he draws you against his non-injured side. “You can’t do this to me again, Piotr. You can’t  _scare me like this_ \--”

“I’m so sorry,  _myshka_. I did not mean --did not want--to scare you. I’m so, so sorry.”

You press your face against his shoulder, body shaking as you cling to him. You thank every deity you can think of that he’s alright --relatively speaking--and  _alive_. “I need you alive, okay? You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and if you died, I wouldn’t --I can’t--”

He kisses the top of your head and squeezes you with his good arm. “I will always come back to, Y/N.  _Always_. I swear.”

You sniff, nod, and do your best to wipe off your face. “Okay, okay.” You give him a watery smile. “Hey, I guess this means I finally get to play nurse for you. Nothing but Cheetos and Poptarts for  _days_.”

He rolls his eyes but smiles anyway. “ _Bozhe moi_.”

***

Nursing Piotr, fortunately, is a pretty easy task. Once he’s discharged, he takes his pain meds at the assigned intervals, does his physical therapy regularly, and follows the doctor’s instructions to the letter.

His one arm is in a sling, though, which means you get to help him dress, shower, and basically do anything that he can’t do with just one arm.

And, as thrilled as you are to help him shower off and get dressed and undressed, you’re also stuck arranging all the meals for the two of you until his collarbone and ribs heal. Unfortunately, as much as you had been kidding about the Cheetos and Poptarts for all meals, reality wasn’t.

Alyssa, your therapist, explained it as ‘forced dependency’; that your parents had purposefully not taught you how to do basic life things so that you’d be dependent on them well into adulthood.

You’d prefer to describe it as ‘blatant dickery.’

***

Fortunately for you, between the handful of things your uncle’s taught you how to cook and the Internet, you can basically avoid burning the mansion down and make somewhat edible food.

You’re swearing under your breath when Piotr walks into the kitchen. “Is everything alright?”

“Peachy fucking keen, my dude,” you grumble as you push a mixture of zucchini, mushrooms, garlic, and squash around a skillet. “Totally radical. Absolutely tit-taciluar.”

He squeezes your shoulder with his good hand and kisses the top of your head. “It smells and look very good.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m pretty sure I bled on this at some point.”

He chuckles. “Can I help with anything?”

“Sure. There are some potatoes in the microwave. Can you give them the squeeze test?” While he does that, you scoop the definitely-sauteed-and-absolutely-not-burnt veggies into a bowl, then pull a tray of chicken out of the oven. “Man, cooking is  _stressful_. I have no idea how you find any of this  _relaxing_ ,” you grumble as you make sure the chicken’s cooked through.

“I think it is easier when you are naturally inclined to following instructions and staying organized.”

You shoot a fake glare in his direction and he laughs. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re not saying.” You carry the chicken and veggies over to the table and start setting up both of your plates. “As much as I love you and don’t mind cooking for you, I can’t wait until you’re better. I’ve never had to think so high maintenance before.”

He belly-laughs. “High maintenance? What about me is high maintenance?”

“You eat like, a bunch of veggies and fruit and shit. I’m used to just making myself a sandwich and putting some chips in a bowl for myself and calling it good, but I  _can’t do that for you_  because your body’s so used to eating healthy and I don’t want to make you sick!”

“So, wait, I am high maintenance because I eat healthy so my body stays healthy?”

“Exactly.” You grin impishly at him. “Your intestines are hella high maintenance, Rasputin. Get over yourself and start eating junk like the rest of us.”

You both break out into loud, gut aching laughter. You brace yourself against the table while Piotr wipes at his eyes with his good hand.

He catches his breath first, shaking his head and grinning impossibly wide. “You’re incorrigible,  _myshka_.”

“And yet, you love me anyway.”

“ _Da_. I do.”

You smile and lean up to kiss him.

 

* * *

 

“Music should be like making love. Sometimes you want it soft and tender, another time you want it hard and aggressive.” -Jeff Buckley.

 

* * *

 

Of all the things you’ve learned about Piotr Rasputin, it’s that his soft heart spills into everything he does and everything he is. Underneath that steel armor of his --and the thick layer of muscle underneath that--he’s really just a marshmallow, a cinnamon roll, and a puppy rolled up into one.

He follows the rules because he genuinely believes in them. He helps others because he likes making other people feel good, feel loved, feel protected. He mentors countless students at the mansion because he sees potential in all of them and wants to help them achieve that potential and tap into it.

And, perhaps unexpectedly, that softness extends into your sex life as well. He loves taking care of you, loves spending time making you feel good, loves taking slow and soft and  _oh so gentle_.

And, as much as you like experimenting and shaking things up, you love him even more. You love the way he loves you, and you love making sure that his needs are being met, too.

Which is how you find yourself on your back, with Piotr thrusting in and out of you with a tenderness that you didn’t even know was possible. Your arms and legs wrapped around him, head tilted back against the pillows as wave after wave of soft, heady pleasure thrums through you.

God, you love this. You love the way his skin --always so soft and warm--whispers against yours with every movement. You love being able to take your time and feel every inch of him, really feel him.

You run your hands over the planes of his broad, muscular shoulders, relishing the way his muscles twitch under your touch. You let out a soft moan and cling to him as he shifts just right inside you, rubs against your walls  _just right_ \--

“Is that good,  _myshka_?”

The husky, lustful timbre of his voice makes you shiver all over. “Really good.  _So good_. Fuck, Piotr, you always feel so good inside me--”

He lets out a quiet groan and starts thrusting a little harder, mouth working at your shoulder and neck.

You run your fingers through his hair, tugging at it whenever a particularly strong burst of pleasure runs through you. You can feel the barest beginning of you climax growing --not even a sensation, really, more just a tease of what’s to come--and you cling to him all the more, kissing him with all the passion you can muster. “I love you. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you I love youIloveyou--”

He moans your name into your mouth and cradles you against him, hugging you against his chest. His hips jerk against yours in smooth, even strokes, and his mouth is warm and insistent against yours. “ _Bozhe moi, moya dusha_ , you feel so good. So warm, and wet, and  _tight_ \--”

You whine as you grind your hips up against his, hands skittering over his chest, his shoulders, his arms. You moan his name again and again, leave little red lines on his back with your fingernails, tug at his hair, kiss at his neck.

But he keeps things slow. Passionate. Sensual. He doesn’t fuck you into the mattress --though he very well could, he’s done it before. He doesn’t flip you onto your hands and knees and pound you into oblivion. He doesn’t roll over and help you ride him until you’ve come so many times that you can’t come again.

He stays slow and gentle while he touches you  _everywhere_ , maps out your body again and again with his hands until he could know you by touch alone, kisses you until neither of you are sure where your own lips end and the other’s start.

And, when you do hit your climax --and you definitely do, you’ve never had an unsatisfactory night with Piotr--it isn’t the usual rip roar of pleasure that leaves you screaming and clutching at him until he hits his own orgasm and rides out the aftershocks.

Rather, it’s soft like him, like the way he loves you. It starts at your core and spreads through your whole body, washing over you until you feel like you’re practically merging souls with the man you’re holding on to.

And, when you come down from it all and meet his ocean blue gaze, you’re not entirely sure you haven’t.

 

* * *

 

“Putting yourself first doesn’t mean that you’re selfish.” -Anonymous.

 

* * *

 

You pretend to joke that you contribute nothing positive to the relationship you’re in, but you’re certain that the people around you can see your insecurities for what they are. Call it a byproduct of your existence, but you just can’t see how you’re supposed to inspire a person as inherently good as Piotr into becoming something better than what he already is.

But, as you slowly mend the gaping wounds left by the people you’ve left behind, you’re able to admit that there is  _one_  area where you’ve affected Piotr for the better.

Self indulgence.

***

Sometimes, it shows itself in the form of encouraging him to make something special for breakfast or help himself to a serving of dessert or a junk food snack. Other times, it manifests by shoving him into the bedroom or his art studio and blowing him until he can’t form sentences in English  _or_  Russian.

The latter, it’s worth noting is a lot of fun and you wish Piotr would let you do it more often.

Today, though, you actually wake up and still find your boyfriend in bed with you.

A miracle, considering that it’s nine o’clock in the morning.

“Babe.” You nudge his shoulder. “I think your alarm failed. It’s nine.”

“It did not fail. I turned it off.” He scrubs at his face with one hand and pulls you towards him with the other. “I decided to take day for myself.”

You grin, delighted. “Really?”

“Is it so hard to believe?”

“Kinda. You’re a bit of a workaholic.” You shift so you’re straddling his waist and press your chest flush against his. “So, this ‘me day’ you’re taking. Is it a ‘solo’ sort of thing, or can I tag along?”

His hands settle on the small of your back. “I’d love it if you joined me,  _myshka_.”

“Awesome. Can I contribute ideas, or am I just following your lead?”

He grins slowly as your hand edges its way towards the waistband of his boxers. “I am open to suggestions.”

“Great. Any chance I can interest you in some morning sex?”

“I think you can tempt me.”

***

The day continues from there in the only way that ‘me days’ ought to: pancakes.

“Morning sex and pancakes for breakfast. Can I just marry you already?”

Piotr’s cheeks flush bright red and he shoots you a scandalized look. “Y/N, we are in  _the kitchen_ \--”

“What, you got a problem with people knowing I want to marry you? And here I thought you weren’t that type of guy. What a shame.”

Piotr sputters, then just shakes his head and sets his plate next to yours. “Just eat your pancakes.”

***

It’s an utterly lovely day, if only from the standpoint that you get to watch Piotr relax and spend a little time on  _himself_ , for  _once_.

He finishes several drawings that he’s had in limbo for awhile because things were so busy, reads a few books while you tuck yourself under his arm and play a few games on your phone, and spends a solid hour in the gardens enjoying the sunlight and sketching random flowers and birds.

He also cleans his art studio, because he’s one of those people that finds cleaning relaxing.

You’re not going to fight it, though, because one look at the self-satisfied expression on his face wipes out whatever jokes you could’ve made. Instead, you flop down in the arm chair and keep him company, alternating between chattering away on whatever comes to mind and finding Buzzfeed videos to commentate over.

Eventually, he closes the last drawer on his desk, stretches his back, then smiles at you. “Are you feeling like dinner?”

“Sure. Got anything particular in mind?”

He helps you out of the chair and pulls you into a hug. “Perhaps.”

***

You snuggle against your boyfriend’s side and sigh happily. “This was a really great idea, Piotr. I wish we could do more of this.”

You’re by the gazebo in the garden, stretched out on a blanket with Piotr. In a basket sits the remnants of your picnic dinner --sandwiches and chips, nothing too complicated or messy.

Piotr wraps his arm around you and squeezes you against him. “ _Da_. This is... this is wonderful.”

You sling your arm over his waist as you watch the barest beginnings of the sunset. “What prompted you to take a day for yourself? Not that I’m complaining, obviously.”

“Honestly? Being with you has helped me realize that I don’t take enough time to really enjoy life --to enjoy the people around me and the moments in it.”

You blink. “Uh... okay.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I mean, I don’t think you’re lying to me, but... I mean, come on. Out of the two of us, which one is the methodical organized one and which on is the hyperactive ball of energy?”

He chuckles and shifts you so you’re sitting in his lap. “Perhaps, but who gets stuck in routine and who is better at being spontaneous? Your excitement and wonder for world around you, it helps me remember that there is more outside my routine. Helps me not take it for granted, but to really appreciate it.”

You almost can’t believe it. You know Piotr would  _never_  lie to you about something so important, but you can’t really fathom that you’ve helped him grow into a better version of himself. You’re the broken one, not him.

And yet, as you watch the sky start to barely turn pink, you can almost believe it. You know you’re better at taking breaks than he is, that stepping outside your routine to do random things comes more naturally to you than it does Piotr.

You nestle against your boyfriend’s burly chest, hope blooming in your chest as the day starts its end.

 

* * *

 

You didn’t expect that you’d ever be loved by a man like Piotr Rasputin.

You didn’t expect to wind up loving yourself, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I just wanted to reach out to y'all and say thanks for reading! Your support and feedback means the world to me, and has done so much to improve my self-esteem about my writing.
> 
> I noticed, however, that my last two fics didn't get the usual response from you guys. It's no big deal, but I just wanted to check and see if it was due to being close to finals/midterms, or if it's because you guys didn't like them. As much as I write for myself (which I do), I want to put content out that you guys actually enjoy.
> 
> Please let me know what the case is if you're comfortable with that!
> 
> I hope you have a great day/night!


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